


About Nothing and Everything All at Once

by janto321 (FaceofMer), JantoPhi21, phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Self-Esteem Issues, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:01:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4524714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321, https://archiveofourown.org/users/JantoPhi21/pseuds/JantoPhi21, https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg couldn't get Sherlock out of his mind. He knew he should forget him, but he kept thinking of him and those pale eyes. And such a brilliant mind, burning it up on drugs. He wanked off thinking about that thin body and what he’d like to do to him, and at the same time worried and hoped that he’d be okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock found the party without a problem. He hadn’t been invited, _per se_ , but these types of gatherings often grew out of control very quickly, and he was confident he’d be able to find what he needed. Namely, information, money and drugs. 

Music throbbed halfway down the block, some contemporary beat that Sherlock vaguely recognized as derivative of Pachelbel’s Canon in D. Sherlock entered in the fray with a distancing scowl, his protection against the drunk and high co-eds who found his looks appealing and tried to sway him with their affections.

First, to find Dr. Bolden’s teaching assistant.

-o-

Greg hadn’t planned on coming to this party. But it was Friday night and there were certainly worse things he could be doing with his time. He bopped his head a bit as he made his way inside, flirting with girls and boys in equal measure as he scanned the party. His attention was caught by a mop of dark curly hair. He’d heard of Sherlock Holmes, most folks on campus had, but hadn’t met the guy yet. He looked like he was arguing with someone and hadn’t noticed the guy had a friend sneaking up behind him. Greg quickly made his way over, knocking the friend off his feet.

-o-

Sherlock followed the movement out of the corner of his eye, and rolled his eyes as some fit bloke tackled the dullard who had been sneaking up on him. He stared down the TA, and with a final comment, threatened, “It’s your choice, Addison, either I get the A in LIT 330, or Dr. Bolden finds out just exactly how you passed his class with such flying colors.”

He turned his back on her, and sneered at the bloke who was brushing himself off with a proud smile, “Idiot.” Then he glared at the dullard, “And you, Jake, my fee is now doubled for that little stunt. I need the first half now, the second half by next Tuesday, or I go the Dean and tell him how your project was completed, and your girlfriend to tell her how you spent last Wednesday morning.”

Jake gaped, stupid like a fish, enraged but unable to figure out a way to defy Sherlock. On the ground, he pulled his wallet out of his pocket, yanked out a fifty pound note, and held it up. Sherlock smirked and snatched it out of his hand, “Pleasure doing business with you.”

-o-

Greg watched the whole thing, impressed. Now he knew exactly how Sherlock had his reputation. He waited until he’d finished both transactions, then gave a smile. “Can I buy you a drink?” He suddenly wanted to get to know this man a whole lot better.

Sherlock scoffed, “What, to apologize for botching a clever scheme with your bumbling bravado? No, thank you.” He held up the note, and commented, “As it is, I have other vices to satisfy.”

Greg raised an eyebrow, but watched him saunter off. Shrugging he went to get a drink, determined to keep an eye on him. 

-o-

Sherlock knew that he’d find what he needed in the toilets; the flat faux marble sinks commonly found in the uni housing were considered ideal locations for cutting out a line. He closed his eyes and pulled up the floor plan to this block of flats in moments, then swerved to the right to find a long hallway, and opened the second door on the left. 

Four people were gathered around, giggling, and when Sherlock opened the door, they all shouted in greeting, “Ooii!”

Sherlock flashed a fake smile, one he knew endeared him to others, though he didn’t know why. He didn’t care, and held up the note, “I’m looking for a gram.”

-o-

Greg went looking for Sherlock. He was an interesting person. And he suspected there was far more to him than the irritated front he put on. It took him more time than he’d thought, but he finally found a bathroom with a bunch of idiots in it, one of them being Sherlock. And he was looking a bit worse for wear.

Sherlock noticed him, “-And this fucker!” directing the room’s attentions to the fit bloke with streaks of premature grey amidst the brown. “This arsehole cost me between two and three hundred quid. I was more than willing to sustain injury for profit, I’ve been known to take much more for considerably less. And he struts in, all firm, gorgeous, and knocks my scheme to pieces by engaging the very moron I intended to blackmail. And thinks with a brilliant smile and the offer of a drink, all will be forgotten!”

Sherlock expected a rousing cry of support from his acquaintances, but they looked more confused then anything else. He rolled his eyes and muttered, “Idiots. The lot of them.”

He was obviously high. Greg leaned against the doorframe. “Well, this idiot did track you down.” Before Sherlock could respond there was the sound of police downstairs. Greg got out of the way as most of the junkies fled. No doubt right into the arms of the waiting cops. “Come on,” he told Sherlock. “I’m going to walk you out of here like you’re my drunk friend.”

Sherlock scoffed, but found himself leaning into the bloke anyways. He smelt delightful, of hops, sweat and cigarettes, and Sherlock rattled on as the man led him out of the party. “You’re barely out of adolescence, and judging from the way you took down that worthless imp says you’ve had training. Police work, I suspect, given your haircut.” Sherlock stumbled slightly as they came down the stairs, chuckling, “Best to play the part.”

Sherlock continued with his deductions as though he hadn’t interrupted himself, “-but the cuts on your knuckles suggest you get into these scuffles often, so I’m guessing, combined with your torn jeans and studded belt, you are having difficulties abandoning your punk persona. The calluses on your fingers tell me you play guitar regularly, and I’m guessing your meager talent impressed our hosts of the evening.”

Greg chuckled. "You're beautiful and brilliant. Dangerous combination." He leaned in for a kiss as a cop passed them.  

Sherlock, feeling reckless, leaned into the kiss deeply, running up a hand up the bloke’s hair, and nipping at his lips. 

“Oi, boys, break it up,” an officer commented as he walked by, and Sherlock chased the man’s mouth as he pulled back.

Greg chuckled. "Can I take you home?"

“Why should you want to? According to reliable sources, I’m far more trouble than I’m worth.”

"I think you can tell I've got a thing for trouble."

“I should inform you that I am expecting sex. Best to be upfront with these things.”

“I can deliver that.” Greg leaned in and nibbled that magnificent throat of his. “Greg Lestrade, by the way.”

“I won’t remember that,” Sherlock dismissed, “How far to your flat? Do you share it? Doesn’t matter, don’t care. Should I fetch us a cab?”

“I drove. Come on.” He led Sherlock to his motorcycle and stuck a helmet on his head. Almost a shame to hide those curls, but it would be worse to damage that beautiful mind. “And I live alone right now.”

Sherlock straddled the bike behind Lestrade, and held on tightly to his waist, as Lestrade started the bike and began to drive off. Sherlock’s face was nuzzled into his neck, as closely as he could with the blasted helmet on. He felt the strong form of the body in front of him, and let one hand drift, teasingly, to deduce exactly what he could expect that evening.

Greg smirked but kept his eyes on the road. He was glad he lived close though. He was rather looking forward to seeing what else that tongue could do. He wasn’t in the habit of bringing home that many, but already Sherlock seemed an exception to most of the rules he’d set for himself.

Sherlock grinned when Lestrade didn’t stop him, and gently stroked him through his jeans, feeling the slight arousal rise, while the other hand drifted to slip beneath the fabric of Lestrade’s shirt. His skin was cool, from the wind whipping through the cotton tee, and he felt the muscles beneath his fingers twitch outside of the rhythmic vibrations of the motorcycle.

Oh this boy was going to be trouble in all the best ways. Greg slowed down and turned into the alley behind his flat. He parked and got off, turning and pressing Sherlock against the wall as he snogged him, taking the helmet off at the same time.

Sherlock accepted Lestrade with a smile, the rough lips against his own, the delicious, rugged scent of an unfamiliar body nearly crushing his against the brick. Sherlock rolled his hips, letting Lestrade feel his intent, and feeling the thickness of the man back against his thigh. Sherlock let his hands roam freely, fingers gripping the greying hair tightly, refusing to let go. The other dipped back underneath his shirt, to feel the thatch of chest hair, then winding around to the small of Lestrade’s back, pulling him tightly into Sherlock’s own body. 

Greg growled, sorely tempted to take him right here. Instead he pulled away, leading Sherlock to his flat and quickly getting the door open. He was glad he'd tidied earlier.  

Sherlock let Lestrade lead him to wherever he felt best; he was pleased to be thoroughly handled and manipulated. As Lestrade thrust him against another door, Sherlock took stock of the flat. Clean, more so than his own by far, with a stack of books on a shelf and a dozen DVDs next to the second most recent game station. In the corner, a bass guitar stood on a stand, and at the realization, Sherlock pushed Lestrade away.

“A  _ bass? _ Why didn’t you tell me I got it wrong?”

“Well, it is a guitar. Besides, I was a bit occupied.”

“It’s not acceptable. I have to be better than that. Can I take pictures of your calluses for reference?”

“Now?” Greg was amused and held out his hands. Yup, all the stories about Sherlock Holmes were true.

Sherlock pulled his travel microscope from his pocket and began to examine Lestrade’s hands. After two or three silent minutes, he pulled his phone from his pocket and carefully manipulated Lestrade’s fingers until he was satisfied with the angle, then snapped several shots. He scrolled through the photos to verify their quality, and smiled.

“Excellent,” Sherlock murmured, “I suppose you’ve got a guitar player, yes? Can I take photos of his hand too?”

“I’ll have to ask him. But he’s not here right now. Do you want to get back to what we were doing?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, confused for a moment, “Oh! Yes. Continue, please.” Sherlock pulled Lestrade back in by his tee, and nibbled his lips until Lestrade opened enough from his to lick and entice Lestrade back to his earlier arousal. 

Greg chuckled and squeezed Sherlock’s arse. “The bedroom is this way.”

Sherlock let Lestrade lead him, refusing to give the man’s lips a moment’s piece. They knocked into a table and a door frame, before Lestrade led him into a bedroom and pressed him against the bed, where Sherlock’s knees hit the side, and he fell open legged before the tantalizing man with the luscious silver streaks.

Greg swore. “You really are gorgeous,” he muttered, going for the button of Sherlock’s jeans. He pulled them open, then reached over and pulled out lube and a condom before going to his knees in front of the younger man and taking out his cock.

“Oh, fantastic,” Sherlock commented, as though he’d won a free sandwich at the local deli. “If you’d like, I can be as instructive as possible, but I would prefer if you just take what you want. Much more information to be gleaned from the wants of partner.”

He groaned as Lestrade’s fingers gripped him firmly, with a few delightful strokes, “I must say I’m quite fond of your initiative.”

"And I'm quite fond of your mouth." Greg leaned in to lick the head of his cock. 

Sherlock propped himself up onto his elbows, looking down his pale frame into the russet brown eyes that stared back at him, full of playful challenge. He gestured to Lestrade with one hand, and prompted, “Go on.”

Grinning, Greg started on his cock, teasing the head, keeping his eyes locked on Sherlock’s as he worked.

Sherlock moaned appreciatively, shifting his weight to one elbow to allow him to thread his fingers through Lestrade’s hair, the roughness of the short strands telling Sherlock everything he needed to know regarding the man’s level of personal grooming: functional, but nothing that might be considered a luxury. Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure why the man had agreed to bring him home, but as Lestrade was expertly teasing the head of head of his cock each time his chapped lips pulled almost off, Sherlock was arsed to care.  

Greg finally swallowed his cock almost all the way down, moaning around him. 

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, surprised at Lestrade’s talent. He’d expected a sloppy handjob or even a vigorous fucking coupled with the use of vulgar terms for body parts he didn’t actually have. But this? Lestrade was clearly enjoying himself, and his deep, vibrating whimpers as he pleasured Sherlock told him that Lestrade openly enjoyed men. Sherlock grinned hungrily at the thought, and breathily commented, “Yes, this was a brilliant idea.”

Greg chuckled around him and raised his head, wiping his mouth before going in for a deep kiss. 

Sherlock whined as Lestrade’s hot mouth left his cock, but the noise was quickly swallowed up by rough lips and a eager tongue. Lestrade slotted himself against him, and Sherlock felt the evidence of his arousal hard against his thigh.

He chuckled and quickly flipped them over, putting Lestrade on his back. Sherlock straddled his waist, cock still jutting out, and rolled his hips. Lestrade’s cock, still trapped in his jeans, fit perfectly in the valley of Sherlock’s arse, and Sherlock rolled his hips again as he resumed nipping at Lestrade’s lips. 

Greg groaned, holding Sherlock's hips. "Fuck, you're ridiculous."

“And you are wearing far too many clothes.”

"Well you better remedy that."

Sherlock slid one hand under Lestrade’s neck, and fisted the man’s tee with the other, dragging him upwards. Once Lestrade held himself upright, Sherlock pulled the shirt off and tossed it to the side. He slid off the bloke’s lap and stood at the foot of the bed, unzipped Lestrade’s jeans, and pulled them down roughly by the cuffs. He let them fall onto the floor, then shimmied his own jeans off. He kicked them to the side and saw the small bag of white powder slip of the pocket. He smiled to Lestrade, faked an apologetic look, and asked “The loo?”  

Greg gestured down the hall. "First door on the right." He grabbed the supplies and moved further up the bed, stroking his cock. 

Sherlock nodded his thanks, and as he turned, he dipped down quickly to pick up the bag out of Lestrade’s sight, and went out the door.

Greg raised an eyebrow at the motion. He waited a few moments then went to the bathroom. “Please tell me you’re not doing drugs in my flat.”

Sherlock looked down at the counter where he'd already cut one line, and scathingly back at Lestrade, " _ Obviously. _ ”

With a sigh, Greg ran a hand through his hair. "Have to ask you to leave then."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You offered to get me out of the party as a drunk, to disguise the fact I was clearly high. You kissed me, when I was clearly high. You brought me home, you let me touch you, you sucked my cock, when I was clearly high. But  _ this- _ ” he dipped down, quickly snorting the short line through ten pound note, “- _ this, _ is where you draw the line? Are you afraid you’ll be caught with blow in the flat? Shouldn’t that mean my disposing of it should be beneficial to you? Or-” Sherlock flashed a winning smile, his eyes glassy with wide blown pupils, “-were you upset I didn’t offer to share?”

“I can’t have it in the flat. You said yourself I’m studying to be a cop. If I’d known you had more on you I wouldn’t have invited you up. I don’t do drugs myself.”

Sherlock looked Lestrade up and down. He was still in his pants, though his erection had waned. He scoffed, “So illegal drugs in the flat is unacceptable, self-indulgence is unacceptable, but fucking me while I’m high is completely acceptable. You may want to review the Met’s ethics code,  _ officer. _ ”

Sherlock dangled the baggie in the air, containing no more than a half a gram left, and asked, “Well, I’m not wasting twenty quid of blow, so you tell me what you suggest I do.”

“If you’re going to do it, you’re not going to do it here. I had thought you were capable of consent. But apparently I was wrong, so for that I apologize.” He turned to go back to his room and get Sherlock’s clothes, pulling his own jeans back on. Maybe he could just drop Sherlock off at wherever home was for him.

Sherlock followed him the bedroom, annoyed to find Lestrade dressing himself. He picked up his own jeans, and shoved them on, tucking the bag back into his back pocket. Sherlock scowled, and spat with a cruel tone, “There’s no need for you to get dressed; there’s a bloke three blocks away that’ll fuck me proper, and pay me for the privilege to do so. I’ll find my own way.”

Greg looked at him a long moment, then suddenly crowded him against the wall. “Don’t doubt that I was going to fuck you very, very good,” he growled. “If you want to whore yourself out, then that’s your choice, but if you ever change your mind, or need something I can actually give, you know where I live.” He grabbed a pen from on top of the dresser and scribbled his number on Sherlock’s hand. “Just in case you need a friend one day.”

“I don’t have  _ friends, _ ” Sherlock sneered, and fled the flat.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock wandered the late night London streets, until he made his way to Henry’s. But Henry shooed him away anxiously; apparently his girlfriend was in town, and wouldn’t appreciate a third. Sherlock knew that what Henry really meant was that his girlfriend had no idea that he fucked some junkie rent boy for a hundred quid a go.

Disappointed, and still frustratingly aroused, he sought out darkened alleys outside clubs, and when that didn’t pay off, he took off to his favoured spot for sleeping rough. He’d been evicted from the uni housing two weeks ago, after his third explosion took out the windows, and rendered the entire room a biohazard. But he had connections with a few of London’s homeless, and knew where he could more or less rest in peace for a few hours before the sun rose.

-o-

Greg couldn't get Sherlock out of his mind. He knew he should forget him, but he kept thinking of him and those pale eyes. And such a brilliant mind, burning it up on drugs. He wanked off thinking about that thin body and what he’d like to do to him, and at the same time worried and hoped that he’d be okay. From asking around campus it sounded like Sherlock had been kicked out of housing. Greg took his classes, did what he needed to. But he hoped Sherlock would call him at some point.

-o-

Sherlock woke with a start, aching and beginning to feel the downward spiral that accompanied the last of the cocaine in his system. There were too many things he wanted to do to suffer the misery, and so he took off the the university’s rec center for a shower and another line. He satisfied his high quickly in the empty shower room, then cleaned the night’s filth from his body and finished with a rather inadequate wank. He’d rented a locker when he’d been evicted, so when he emerged from the shower, he changed into a clean pair of khakis, button down and a casual waistcoat.

He assessed his remaining clothes, and figured he’d drop the bag off at Mycroft’s front door the night after next. He knew the clothes would be cleaned, pressed and repacked the following morning, waiting for him, along with several shelf stable food stuffs for when he occasionally felt hungry. Mycroft may not approve of his activities, but he never failed to provide the basics. If only living with him weren’t so completely intolerable.

He left the rec center and headed to CHEM 352, one of the few classes he could tolerate. He was buzzing happily, London was overcast but bustling, and Sherlock felt the rush of information pouring into his brain, ready for sorting. Perhaps the day would not be completely dreadful.

-o-

Greg was startled awake by his mobile. He fumbled for it, noticing the late (or early) hour and answered it. “Greg Lestrade.”

“Lestrade, right! Gavin or Geoff, or something else, yeah?” the voice on the other end slurred, “I’m in Bart’s A&E, and this tedious nurse won’t discharge me without a ride home. Will you tell her you’ll come fetch me? You needn’t actually do so, but she just wants confirmation, since they’ve drugged me to the gills and don’t want the liability.”

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose. “Greg. And I’ll be there soon. I am coming.”

“No, you juss- lemme get the nurse, one mo’” the man hollered away from the phone, “Nurse Ratched! I’ve a ride! I can prove it!” He spoke into the receiver again, still clearly uncoordinated from whatever medication A&E had dosed him with, “Just tell ‘er you’ll gemme, and I can find m’own way.”

“No. I am coming to get you.” Greg hung up before Sherlock could argue.

Sherlock looked at the phone as though it had betrayed him, then chucked it to the ground. The nurse came in, and he looked up, and announced, “Ratched! I’ve a ride. Some bloke that kicked me out a week ‘go. Lemme go. I’ll tell your.. shit, who do you report to? You’ve taken supplies home, I can tell by your scrubs. Gimme someone who can get you in trouble,” he tried to order, but she just rolled her eyes, and closed the curtain to his room.

Sherlock scowled, but quickly forgot his anger in favor of deducing the room, again and again and again.

Greg showed up a short time later. “I’m Greg Lestrade. Here to pick up Sherlock Holmes.”

The nurse led him to Sherlock’s room with a muttered, ”Better you than me.”

Sherlock gasped ridiculously when Lestrade entered the room, “You! What’re you doing here?”

“I’m your ride, idiot. Come on.” Greg could see he’d been beat up.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock protested, “I’ve got a lovely alleyway in which to kip. Don’t nee’ a ride.”

“Yes you do. And I’ve got a lovely sofa. Come on.”

Sherlock let Lestrade drag him off the bed, and he leaned on him with his left side, his right arm wrapped for the wrist sprain. He let Lestrade maneuver him onto the motorcycle again, and Sherlock smirked to himself. After Lestrade shoved the helmet on his head, he straddled the bike once again, and Lestrade drove off. Sherlock giggled into Lestrade’s neck, and let his hands wander southward, as he did the first time on Lestrade’s bike.

Greg rolled his eyes, but managed not to crash. He got home and helped Sherlock into his flat and then his bedroom, pushing the wandering handed bastard into it. “Sleep,” he ordered, grabbing a pillow and closing the door on the way out to the couch.

Sherlock fell onto his bruised face, and felt his cracked ribs as he rolled over, but once he stopped moving, the pillow under his head felt soothing and cool, and for the first time in a week, he fell asleep in a proper bed.

Greg woke early from habit. There was no sign of movement from his bedroom, so he set about making breakfast.

The scent of coffee rose Sherlock from his slumber, but his whole body ached. He supposed he should have expected it. Jake refused to pay, and so Sherlock, as promised, went to both to the Dean and Jake’s girlfriend. It took less than 2 hours before Jake and his stupidly dull gang found Sherlock and beat him near senseless. At least the cretin would be expelled for his troubles. If the Dean didn’t see to it, Mycroft would. Sherlock took a few sniffs before opening his eyes, and recognising the scent of mediocre coffee, was pleased to realise he wasn’t at Mycroft’s. He might never forgive himself had he sought out his brother during such a time. But the room was vaguely familiar, and Sherlock decided to wait until the person who owned the flat came back to rouse him.  

Greg picked up a tray and knocked on the bedroom door, not getting an answer, he pushed it open. “Morning sunshine.”

“Gary!” Sherlock exclaimed, “I knew I recognised this room.”

“Greg. But yes. Here you go. How you feeling?”

“In pain,” Sherlock responded with irritation, “That should be more than clear from my bruising.” Recalling that he’d been booted from the flat the last time he was here, he made to get up, and groaned before heaving, “Sorry to bother you. I”ll see myself out.”

“Nope. Stay put. Here’s breakfast. And I don’t have any classes today.”

Sherlock sighed, acknowledging he was still in a great deal of pain, “Fine.” He picked at the beans and toast, but devoured the berries and coffee, using the last of it swallow two oxycodone for the pain.

Still lying supine in bed, Sherlock asked with a forced calmness, “How much do I owe you?”

“Not a thing.” Greg found him just as attractive in this light, even though he'd just had the shit beaten out of him. But he had no interest in the kind of relationship that would develop if he pressed his advantage now.

“You lie. Everyone wants something. Even my own brother won’t let me stay at his flat until I’m clean. Won’t give me spending money unless I attend his ‘diplomatic events’. Everyone. Wants. Something. What do you want?”

“I’d like you to be clean, but I know that’s difficult. All I ask is that you don’t do drugs in my flat. I’ve got a spare bedroom. It’s yours.”

“In exchange for what?” Sherlock inquired, skeptical.

Greg shrugged. “I’d just like to get to know you better.”

“No one wants to know me better. You’ll have to lie better than that.”

“It’s the truth, Sherlock. I’ll be in the front room.”

Sherlock scrambled up before Lestrade could walk away, “What do you mean, the truth? I don’t understand. What do you want me to give you?” Every act of kindness in his life had come with stipulations.

“Nothing, Sherlock.”

“It can’t be nothing!” Sherlock shouted, trying to jump up from the bed. He underestimated how badly his leg hurt, and it buckled underneath him.

Greg caught him. “You need to rest up.” He settled Sherlock back into the bed and tucked him in.

Sherlock’s head drooped as the medication began to work. Sherlock yawned deeply, and patted at Lestrade’s hand, still on his arm, “They always want something,” he murmured, and fell back into a deep sleep.

Greg shook his head and went back out to the front room, taking up his bass to practice quietly.

-o-

Sherlock awoke with a start, and his body throbbed. He could hear the bass echoing down the hall. He took stock of the room, noticing bits he hadn’t during his first encounter in this room. The books and the pictures and the way Lestrade hung his clothes told him more about the man than he could glean through conversation, and he liked it that way. Remembering his earlier fall, Sherlock eased off the bed carefully, and began to rifle through the nightstand and dresser drawers. He was curious about this bloke, who tossed him out for a bit of blow, yet fed and housed him when he was broken and bloody. In Sherlock’s experience, most people did just the opposite.

Greg finally stopped playing when he got hungry for lunch. He fixed sandwiches and, like before, knocked on the bedroom before entering.

Sherlock frowned. Prior incidents suggested that having the photos and letters that were stashed in the man’s closet spread all over the bed would likely be ill received. Yet, there was no chance he could hide the mess he’d made, so he just replied, “Come in.”

Greg walked in and stopped, seeing the mess. "Somebody got curious."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. While he’d been in this type of situation loads before, the response was always instant anger. Was Lestrade biding his time? Would he chose physical violence later over verbal violence now? Lestrade unsettled him, and he tensed, ready to bolt if the man decided to attack. He chose his words carefully, “A person’s belongings provide more honest truths than conversation.”

"And what have you learned?" Greg was curious. He'd never met anyone like Sherlock Holmes before.

“You have been in five short term relationships, three men and two women. Also two long term relationships, both women. Which may show a slight preference towards women, if it weren’t for your mildly homophobic father, who is currently either dead or estranged. Though it was short term, your most meaningful relationship to date was with a Mexican foreign exchange student by the name of Sajid. He went home after his semester abroad, and you couldn’t maintain the transatlantic distance. When you sleep with men, you have no strong preference for being top or bottom. Your two short term relationships with women ended when they discovered you were bisexual.”

Sherlock took a deep breath, then continued in the same rapid fire pace, “Your mother is French, you spent summers in France with your maternal grandmother, and your French is both fluent and accent-less. You have two younger sisters, one of whom resides or did reside in Paris and the other in Leeds. You’ve played the bass for five years, though you started with the piano, which your mother played.”

Sherlock stopped, half hovering off the bed, ready to escape, but asked, “How’d I do?”

Greg couldn’t help his grin. “That was totally brilliant. You’re amazing. How do you do it?”

Sherlock’s shoulder relaxed with an excited intake of breath. “It’s all here if you know how to look for it,” he motioned to the photos, letters, and other scraps. “Let’s take your father, for instance. In the four relationships you had before uni, you have photos with three of you girlfriends at your family home with your father present. The one boyfriend you had, there are no pictures of the two of you with family, nor even in your home. However, in later years, you have photos of the other two boyfriends at your family home, with your mother present. You take several photographs in your family room, and your father’s lounge chair is clearly missing in the later photographs. Conclusion? Your father is no longer in the picture, though when he was, you hesitated to bring your boyfriends home.”

“That’s right. How did you know about the French?” Greg came over to sit next to him.

“Child’s play,” Sherlock dismissed, searching the photos, “Ah! Here!” He shoved the photo into Lestrade’s hands. Lestrade gave him a puzzled look, as the subjects of the photo were his mother and youngest sister making pancakes.

“In the background!” Sherlock exclaimed excitedly. He waited a few moments, during which Lestrade simply looked perplexed, then frowned, “The calendar - the first two weeks are crossed out and simply say “Greg à Maman” in woman’s handwriting. Thus, you were spending with your mother’s mother, whose first language is French. You would have been exposed to the language in infancy, so would have retained the necessary phonemes to speak the language without an accent.”

Greg grinned. “Vous êtes génial.”

Sherlock let a small, genuine smile slip out. He responded in hushed tones, refusing to make eye contact, “Merci.”

“De rien,” Greg reached out and barely touched his knee. “You’re not like anyone else I’ve ever met. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Why? I’m a miserable, albeit brilliant, entitled sociopathic brat. Or so I’ve been told. Why would you have anything more than a passing curiosity in me?”

“You are beautiful and brilliant. If you’re a brat it’s only because you’ve learned to keep people at arms length.”

“If you let them get any closer, they tend to punch,” Sherlock deadpanned, motioning to his blackened eye.

“Well, I’d much rather you stay here then sleep on the streets.”

“You say that now,” Sherlock dismissed, “But within a week, sometimes even days, I’m sleeping rough again. They don’t like my abrasiveness, my deductions, my wit, my experiments, my vices, what have you.”

“The only thing I don’t like is you doing drugs in my flat. Everything else...if I can live with my father for sixteen years I can live with you.”

“A compromise, then. I’ll come by nights I need a place to kip. Kick me out at your leisure,” Sherlock shrugged off, as though he weren’t talking about the difference of being homeless or not.

“You’re not going anywhere until you’re better.”

“That’s relative. I’ve got cracked ribs, a black eye, a sprained wrist, and bruises up and down my left flank. But I can walk, so what’s better? At least I got over the worst of the cocaine come down while I was unconscious. But I have work to do. A chem lab to pass, essays to complete for a string of morons who are willing to pay a frankly ridiculous amount to avoid classwork. Does plagiarism violate your ethics, Gary?”

“Greg. And that’s your own business. I do my own work.”

So does that mean you’re giving me a key, or do I have to knock?”

“I can give you a key and a spare room. Unless you’d like to sleep here.”

“I don’t sleep much. If you’re amenable, I’ll take a key? I’ll give you my brother’s contact information. If you need something replaced, call him. He’ll take care of it.”

“All right. Let me just grab the key. Eat up, and if you don’t mind, put those things back?”

“If you insist,” Sherlock commented, though he genuinely had no intention to put anything back. He made to get off the bed, but felt a large shock of pain. Eyes closed he forced out, “Paracetamol?” He hated the dullness the opioids brought on, and some lingering pain kept his mind sharp.

"I'll bring you some. Just relax."

“Relax? Ha!” Sherlock teased, but he remained seated on the bed, the pain too much to ignore. “Did A&E give you my backpack? I’ve work to do.”

“Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock watched Lestrade leave the room, and ruffled his hair. He felt relatively confident now that Lestrade wasn’t planning on hurting him, and though he wouldn’t admit it aloud, he was thankful for the offer a bed on the raining London nights.

"Working on anything interesting?" Asked Greg when he came back, gathering up the photos and letters.

“Six first years are paying me twenty quid for each chemistry lab they’ve got. It’s tedious, but it pays for my supplies.”

“Well, sounds like you’ve got quite a business going.”

“Yes, well, apparently even those of us studying chemistry don’t get to use the equipment as we see fit. What is the point of teaching chemistry, if not to allow students to experiment with chemicals? It’s why they’re all morons, the lot of them.”

“I’m sure they’re just worried about the labs getting blown up. Isn’t that why you got kicked out of housing?”

Sherlock froze, then glared at Lestrade, “How much is Mycroft paying you, then, to spy on me? All this pretending to tolerate me, fetching me from A&E, how naive of me. Of course you don’t want anything from me. You are getting everything you need from Mycroft.”

"What? Who's Mycroft?" Greg frowned as he looked at him. "I just asked around campus about you."

“Pity,” Sherlock said, as he slowly stood from the bed, and stared at Greg with cold eyes. “You know, this is why the cocaine is necessary. Keeps me sharp. I never would have so stupid as to think you were simply _friendly._ I should know. I don’t have friends.”

Sherlock made to swing the pack around his shoulder, but the pain in his ribs exploded at the movement, and he dropped like a sack of potatoes, landing half slumped on the bed.

“Christ,” Greg caught him and settled him back on the bed. “I asked around because I was worried about you and I wanted to know if you were okay. I do want to be your friend, Sherlock.”

" _Holmes’ don’t have friends. They have opportunists ."_ Sherlock parroted, “Why should you be any different?”

“Because I can see that there’s a brilliant man here. I’m not perfect Sherlock but I’m trying to help you.” Frustrated, Greg turned away. “You need to rest, you’re in no shape to go anywhere. I’m going to the library to study.” And with any luck his place wouldn’t be robbed blind when he got back.

Sherlock lay back on the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. Mycroft had warned him time and time against sentiment. But his older brother was not without his faults. Perhaps this was one of them. He closed his eyes, the pain making him more tired than he’d been in weeks. When he woke, he decided, he’d search Lestrade’s place for any signs of Mycroft. If he found none, perhaps he could stand at least one more night on a soft mattress with warm sheets.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg got back later then he intended, with takeaway. He was somehow not surprised to see his flat had been rather ransacked while he was gone. Sighing, he brought the food in and dropped it on the table, getting his own plate and sitting on the sofa.

Sherlock, hearing the door open, came down hallway and announced, “Well, I’m at least convinced you’re not working for Mycroft. Your amp is in desperate need of repair, and it would be the first thing you’d fix or replace if you had come into money.”

“Well as that’s not likely to happen, I’ll just deal with it as it is. Food on the table if you want some.”

“Not necessary. I ate yesterday, “Sherlock commented, then tilted his head, looking up in the air, “Or was it the day before? Either way, slows me down.”

He walked out the room and came back a few moments later with his backpack. He sprawled on the sofa next to Lestrade, tucked one foot under Lestrade’s thigh and let the other one stretch onto the coffee table. He pulled out a variety of papers, pencils, pens, and a clipboard, and began to work.

Greg gave half a shrug and ate, channel surfing. After a while he got up, put the rest of the food away and came back with two mugs of tea, putting one in Sherlock’s easy reach.

Automatically, Sherlock’s hand snaked out and he took a sip, then placed it back. He shuffled papers, then picked up a hot pink ball point, switched hands, and continued working.

Greg let the evening stretch into silence. After a while he picked up his bass to practice some more, liking the comfort of knowing Sherlock was right here by his side.

Sherlock let the soft rhythms wash over him, as he continued to switch papers, writing utensils, and hands to mimic the handwriting and styles of the first years who were paying him. At long last, he sorted and slotted everything into his backpack, and looked down at the half empty cup. “It’s cold,” he announced.

“I’ll bring you some more.” Greg put the guitar aside and went to the kitchen. He came back with tea and a bit of food for Sherlock.

His bruises on his face and arms were beginning to blossom into truly spectacular colours, but Sherlock seemed to ignore his injuries in favor of the thick text in which he was now engrossed. The binding must have been four inches thick, and rested against his bent leg and rib cage. He winced every time he turned the page, but didn’t seem to notice he was doing it.

Without speaking, Greg adjusted his position and left Sherlock to his work. He cleaned up and put things away, and then headed to his own bedroom, figuring either Sherlock would join him, sleep on the couch, or take up the spare.

“Paracetamol?” Sherlock asked the empty room, not waiting for a response. He dove back into his thoughts, and when he came up for breath, he realized his chest, wrist, face and legs throbbed. He frowned and looked around, but there weren’t any pills to be seen. He kept looking; where had Lestrade gone?

He heaved the book off his chest and gasped as fire blazed through his veins. He curled into the pain and tried to call out, but found his voice rasping. His breathing became laboured, and he realised far too late that something was very, very wrong.

He pushed the book off him with a final thrust and it made a solid _thud_ on the floor. Sherlock wondered if Lestrade was close enough to hear the noise, just before he passed out.

Greg woke with a start at the thunk. He got up and headed out to the living room, figuring Sherlock had just tipped over on his way to bed. “Shit,” he muttered as he realised Sherlock was straight passed out. He shook his shoulder, but when there was no response, he called an ambulance.

-o-

Sherlock woke for the second time in two days in a hospital bed. This time, when he opened his eyes, he was greeted by the concerned looks of both Lestrade and Mycroft.

“Bugger,” Sherlock muttered. “What now?”

“That is up to you, brother mine,” said Mycroft in that carefully controlled voice.

“For what it’s worth, I didn’t call him, he just showed up,” added Greg.

Sherlock looked over Mycroft quickly to confirm Lestrade’s assertion. He peaked under his sheets at his chest, and sighed. “Collapsed lung?” he hypothesised.

“Of course. You left with cracked ribs, then threw yourself about like the ridiculous, dramatic child you are. Is it any wonder we’re here?” Mycroft answered blandly.

“I won’t stay,” Sherlock grew angry.

“You will. Seventy-two hours minimum,” Mycroft crowed, then cut off Sherlock’s protest, “I’ve Anthea on your detail.”

Sherlock slumped back. Mycroft’s assistant was exceptionally ruthless, and wasn’t in the least bit swayed by his duplicitous charm. “So exactly what do you I suggest I do in the meanwhile?”

“I brought your books,” said Greg, gesturing to the chair. “Anything else I can bring you?”

Mycroft smiled brightly and falsely, “He brought you your books. Isn’t that lovely?”

“Thank you, Gavin,” Sherlock dismissed, focussing on the taunting look on Mycroft’s face.

“Greg,” Mycroft corrected. “Gregory Lestrade.”

Greg shifted uncomfortably, feeling the tension. “I’ll check on you later, yeah?”

“Oh no, Mr. Lestrade, I’ll go. I wouldn’t want to come between Sherlock and his new friend,” Mycroft gave Sherlock a patronising smile, nodded to Lestrade, and slipped out the door.

Sherlock glared after him until he could no longer see him, then turned to Lestrade, “He’s going investigate you now that you’ve associated yourself with me. I do hope your past is clean enough.”

“I hope so too,” Greg shifted on his feet. “Do you want me to stay?”

“If you insist, I suppose you could stay,” Sherlock lamely acquiesced.

Greg ran a hand through his hair. “My offer still stands.”

“Offer?” Sherlock asked, “Oh! To kip on your sofa. Yes. Well. I think I may find that convenient from time to time.”

“All right. Did you want me to stay a bit?”

Sherlock looked closely at his fingers, “If you wish.” He tried, and failed, to sound indifferent.

Smiling softly, Greg moved to sit next to the bed, just trying to offer comfort.

Sherlock shifted to the side of the bed, opening a space for Lestrade to sit next to him if he so chose.

With a slight nod, Greg took the offer, reaching out to run fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned into the touch. His mother would run her fingers through his hair when he was sick as a child, and this was a form of affection he understood. A soft smile graced his lips and he felt oddly calm. Although, perhaps that was just the morphine.

Greg stayed by his side, watching as Sherlock fell asleep.

As though by magic, Sherlock’s daunting older brother reappeared, and looked at Lestrade, fingers still carefully threading through the cascading curls.

“What, exactly, is the nature of your association with my brother?” he demanded, spitting the word out like venom.

“I met him at a party about a week ago. Gave him my number, he called me when he got beat up.” Greg strongly suspected honesty would be best here.

“Do you supply him with drugs?”

“What?” Greg snapped, then quickly lowered his voice. “No. I kicked him out of my flat for trying to do some, as a matter of fact.”

“Then why did you give him your number?”

“I thought he might need a friend one day.” He looked down at his fingers tangled in dark hair. “I think I was right.”

“He does seem less opposed to your presence than I had expected,” Mycroft commented, with a much less accusatory tone. “I do so worry about him. You can see why.”

He paused for a moment, then continued, “I could ease your way considerably if you might be willing to help alleviate my concerns. Nothing distasteful.”

“I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure that there is something you might wish for in exchange for a small amount of harmless information.”

“No. Truly.”

“You’ve a younger sister? Cecile, yes? She’s very far away, schooling abroad in Spain. Wouldn’t you feel assured if a friend would let you know when she was in trouble? If a monetary exchange bothers you, perhaps consider it a favor, from one older brother to another.”

“We’ve barely spoken in five years.”

“And wouldn’t you feel better if you knew she were safe?”

“Of course I would, but I’m not going to compromise my chance at a relationship with Sherlock.”

“I think we are rather getting off course here. I suppose I just care for my brother more than you must care for your sister.”

Greg carefully got out of the bed and stepped into Mycroft’s space. “Don’t you _ever_ think that.”

“Then I cannot understand your reticence to help keep Sherlock safe.”

“I’m not making a Faustian bargain just because you think it’s the the only way to accomplish anything.”

“Faustian? You flatter me,” the edge to Mycroft’s voice had returned. “Tell me then, exactly how do I ensure that my brother doesn’t end up overdosing in a back alley as he did three months ago? If I hadn’t been watching for him, he would be dead.

“I tried diplomacy, Mr. Lestrade, and you chose poorly. I would be especially careful with your actions. All those pub fights may not be well received by the Yard. It would be shame for all your hard work to end with you working department store security.”

Greg met his gaze. “Mate, I’m trying to look out for your brother. He’s not going to trust me if he thinks I’m on your payroll. I have worked hard to get where I am, but if you decide to destroy my life merely because I’m trying to help, then I suppose that’s the consequence I will have to live with.”

“If your association with Sherlock brings any harm to him, your life will be the least of your problems,” Mycroft promised darkly, and turned sharply, striding out the door on his last words.

Greg rolled his eyes and took a seat next to Sherlock again, wondering why he ever got himself tangled up with these Holmses.

-o-

Sherlock woke, eyes still closed and as was his habit, deduced the room before looking. A hospital room; his brother had left; the nurse had drawn a vial of blood for a CBC while he slept, preferring to avoid him, but most interesting was the warm body pressed against his left side, and the arm gingerly draped over his abdomen, carefully avoiding his chest.

Greg stiffed as he felt Sherlock move. “How are you feeling?” he asked, raising his head.

Sherlock looked down at him with confused expression, “You’re… cuddling with me?”

Biting his lip, Greg pulled away. “Too much? Sorry.”

“No, it’s… nice,” Sherlock admitted, looking at the IV line. His brain felt too sluggish, but his cynicism had dissipated, leaving him open and honest, “I like it. I’m sorry, what did they give me?”

“Um, Ativan, I think.”

“This would be a terrible drug for brainwork. But it’s perfect for cuddling. Can we do that again?”

Greg chuckled and snuggled down close to him again. “Get some sleep.”

“Why?” Sherlock yawned.

Smiling, Greg kissed his cheek. “Then just close your eyes.”

Sherlock did as he was told, but in a quieter voice still, clarified, “No. Why me?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just been attracted to you since the moment we met.”

“I’ve been told I’m attractive before, but normally before they hear me speak,” Sherlock lifted his right arm to scratch softly at his chest dressings, then laid his hand on Lestrade’s.

“You’ve got tight armour, Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t worth it.”

Sherlock’s voice was barely more than a whisper as sleep dragged him down, “I like it. You.”

“Thank you.”

Quiet snores were all he heard.

-o-

A week later they were settled into Greg’s flat. Sherlock shared his bed, but Greg made no moves to go farther than sleeping, trying to give him time to heal and let him know he was valued for more than his body. As far as Greg knew, he didn’t touch any drugs, but he also wasn’t there all the time, still attending classes.   

During the days, Sherlock laid out on the sofa, long legs dangling over one end, with a pensive look on his face. Sometimes he failed to move for hours. Cups of tea would sometimes materialize beside him and the occasional bowl of nibbles. He suspected Lestrade must be popping from time to time between classes, but he only recalled seeing him once or twice. He could only regularly account for his presence when Sherlock slid into the warm sheets beside him in the wee hours of morning. He recalled his embarrassingly open behavior at the hospital, and refused to speak such brazen sentiment again. But he craved the warmth by his side, and the way his body leaned naturally into Lestrade’s.

Greg was well aware of his feelings towards Sherlock, and the other man’s reticence. Still, he came to his bed often enough, even if he wouldn’t speak of such things, and he seemed to be on the mend, at least physically. Greg rolled over once or twice and curled up around him, wondering if they’d ever make the next step. He just hoped Sherlock would stay off the drugs. There was no word from the brother either, so maybe he wouldn’t find himself at the bottom of the Thames.

-o-

“You!” Sherlock exclaimed one afternoon when Lestrade popped by between classes. He wasn’t in his usual oblivious daze on the sofa, and instead pacing the room. The whole place looked like it had been ransacked, and Sherlock exuded distress.

"What's happened?" Greg stayed by the door.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock growled. “Apparently my behavior has been ‘unusual’ and he took it upon himself to order a drugs bust of your flat. I assume he spoke to you when I was in the hospital?”

"He tried to bribe me, yeah."

“Yes, well, I’m guessing there was more to it than that. I presume you didn’t understand exactly how dangerous he was? He’ll be letting you know over the next several weeks, I’m sure,” Sherlock muttered, hands twitching as they gestured wildly.

"He implied it." Greg went to him and smoothed his hands down his arms. "We'll be okay."

“You’ll be happy to know they didn’t find anything. But Lestrade, my mind is racing and I’m bored and I don’t know what else to do and I’ve only ever been able to focus with the cocaine and I’m finding myself hesitant to buy it because Mycroft would destroy you and I care for some reason and now I don’t know what’s worse, the sentiment or the drugs and Christ, can I at least get a cigarette!?” Sherlock spoke rapidly and without pause.

"No, sorry, doctor’s orders." Greg shook his head. "Get some fresh air and I’ll get something for your mind."

Sherlock pouted, then flung open the balcony door, closed it hard behind him, and leaned against the rail. He took in several deep breaths, and felt his mind clear and his anxiety ebb just a bit.

Greg started straightening up his flat, shaking his head. Mycroft needed to know that he had Sherlock’s best interests at heart. As he was straightening up a bookshelf, he came across a book of unsolved mysteries. He set that aside and waited for Sherlock to come back in.

Greg’s mobile rang.

Sighing he picked it up. “Lestrade.”

“Greg, dear!” his mother exclaimed from the other end, “How did you know?!”

“Know what?” he asked, tucking the phone against his shoulder as he worked.

“That I needed a new dishwasher? It just broke two days ago! And I wake up this morning to find you’ve installed a brand new one!” His mum was near tears with joy, “I had no idea how I would afford to fix it. You are-” She gave a happy sob.

Greg was torn between anger and his mom’s happiness. “Well, enjoy it,” he said, trying to keep his temper in check. “I’m in the middle of some things, I’ll call you back..”

Standing, he strode out to the balcony. “I need your brother’s number.”

Sherlock looked Greg up and down, seeing the barely concealed rage, “Ah, showed his hand, did he? My mobile’s on the nightstand. It’s in there.”

“Thanks.” He went and found the mobile, pacing as he dialed.

Sherlock, curious, came in to watch Lestrade as though he were a particularly interesting programme.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Asked Greg when the man answered.

“Good evening, Mr. Lestrade. How can I help you?” Mycroft spoke coolly, ignoring Lestrade’s outburst.

“Stay out of my life. You want to search my flat, fine, but leave my family out of this. I’ve done nothing to harm you or your brother.”

“Have I caused harm to you or your family in any way?” Mycroft inquired.

“My mother is not your responsibility.”

“Mr. Lestrade, you have an unfortunate habit of answering questions I did not ask. Let’s try again. Have I caused harm to you or your family in any way?”

“You’re a dick, Mycroft Holmes.” He hung up the phone and barely resisted throwing it against the wall.

Sherlock laughed a loud, genuine, laugh, “That was bloody brilliant.”

Greg ran a hand through his hair. “You think so?”

“My brother is the British Government, the British Secret Service and Freelance CIA all in one. And you called him a dick and hung up on him. Of course it was brilliant!”

“Should I be concerned about snipers?”

“Oh no. Nothing so obvious. More like… you’d disappear without a trace, and no one could prove you ever existed in the first place. That’s more his style.”

“Fantastic. He’s still a dick.”

“Undoubtedly,” Sherlock grinned. “Let’s send him a fat chocolate cake and see if we can ruin his diet.”

Greg grinned at him. “Okay.”

Sherlock beamed, “Really?” He rubbed his hands together, jumped up, then paused slightly, “Where does one buy good cake? He won’t eat anything from Tesco’s.”

“I’ve got a friend going to pastry school.”

“So what do we need to do?”

“I’ll make some calls.”

“It needs to rich. Finest of everything. Delicate, delectable. Cost is no object,” Sherlock danced around the room, “Do you have a computer I can use? I’ll hack Mycroft’s accounts.”

“He’ll do it for free, don’t worry.”

“Fantastic!” Sherlock shouted, arms flying. His ecstatic, frantic motions led him over to Lestrade, where Sherlock impulsively grabbed the man and kissed him hard, but chaste.

Sherlock pushed back with eyes wide, “I’m… I didn’t mean-”

Greg chuckled. “It’s fine, Sherlock. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock hesitated all of a half second, and then with a sudden surge, pulled Lestrade into him. Their lips made contact and Sherlock kissed desperately, thirsty, as he pulled them towards the wall. His back hit the bathroom door, and despite a sharp gasp of pain, he pulled Lestrade more tightly against him, trying to fill an ache, to achieve something, but he wasn’t sure what.

Greg groaned, rutting against his hip. “God, Sherlock.” He licked into his mouth, one hand in the other man’s hair, the other one holding his hip.

Sherlock bit back a most undignified noise, but pulled Lestrade flush against his body, opening up to him, teasing back with his tongue, and looping one arm around Lestrade’s waist to keep him close. He spread his legs slightly until he found himself just an inch or two shorter than Lestrade, so that he had to tilt his head up slightly to keep the delicious contact between them.

Reaching down, Greg wrapped Sherlock’s legs around him, tugging at his hair, wanting nothing more than to fuck his brains out.

Unable to restrain it further, Sherlock moaned, the feel of Lestrade’s cock pressed against his own, even through layers of clothing, lit his nerves, sparking through his body. It was thrilling, breathtaking, somehow even just the few weeks of relationship they had forged together made Sherlock’s body sing with a pleasure he’d not yet know with his other… at best, they were masturbation alternatives. But to feel Lestrade, who’d brought him home, cared for him, bonded over their distaste of Mycroft, to feel Lestrade hold him up against the wall, ready to take and devour him was an experience Sherlock was completely unfamiliar with, and more than ready to indulge.

“I want to fuck you,” Greg nibbled on his ear, nearly ready to come in his pants already.

“Then do it,” Sherlock growled, “I want you in me, fucking me, filling me. And then again. And again. I do hope you’re up to it.”

“You better believe it.” He pulled him away from the wall and carried him to the bedroom, nearly dropping him on the bed, yanking the other man’s trousers open and down.

Sherlock laughed at Lestrade’s surprise when he saw his lack of pants. Meanwhile, his hands flew to his own shirt, rapidly unbuttoning and leaning up slightly so that in moments, he lay naked, save for the dressing over his chest, spread, wanton before Lestrade.

“Christ,“ Greg caught his breath, reaching into his drawer for lube and a condom.

“Not quite,” Sherlock teased, softly tugging at himself, knees bent and thighs open wide, waiting.

Greg kissed him again, getting his own clothes off and coating his fingers, pushing two inside.

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, beginning to pant, “That’s… gentler than… I expected. It’s so… OH!” Sherlock arched off the bed as Lestrade changed his angle.

Chuckling softly, Greg leaned in to lip at Sherlock’s nipples.

Gasping, Sherlock passionately ran his hands over Lestrade’s body, attempting to catalogue the man’s gasps and moans in between his own. He felts for the dips and curves, the strength of his muscles, where Lestrade’s body involuntarily quivered. No inch of skin he could reach was left unexplored.

“I’m gonna fuck you Sherlock,” Greg breathed against his lips, reaching for the condom.

“You damn well better. And you don’t have to be gentle,” Sherlock dismissed, “Quick and rough is pretty much all I know.”

“Then we’re going to take it gentle and slow.” Greg eased his fingers inside, devouring Sherlock’s mouth.

He whimpered at Lestrade’s touch, far more soft and slow than he’d been treated before. His experiences prior were fast and just on this side of painful, and he barely knew how to proceed without the pain. Instead, he found himself overwhelmed with the touch of just Lestrade’s two fingers, stretching and teasing him. “Fuck, Lestrade, it’s … oh. Wow,” Sherlock uttered, his brain stuttering to a halt as the slow seduction encompassed every thought process he had.

Greg’s kisses slowed as well, gentle teases to go with the movement of his fingers. He added more lube before a third finger, pulling back to watch the pleasure washing over his lover’s face. Sherlock really was gorgeous.

His back arched, and he bore down as well as he could on Lestrade’s talented digits. He held the silver streaked man by the neck, snogging him with sloppy appreciation, grace flown out the window as he craved pure and utter consumption of this brilliant, tolerant, appreciative bloke; someone who appeared to crave him just for him. Sherlock tampered down the few doubts he felt, and instead, placed a hand on Lestrade’s arse, grinding him tightly, hotly, thickly against his own arousal. “Fuck, Lestrade,” Sherlock muttered, their connection purging Sherlock’s mind of its rapid fire motion.

“I’m going to take you now,” murmured Greg, withdrawing his fingers and rolling on a condom. He moved between Sherlock’s thighs and pushing his knees up, kissing him again as he started to press inside, just as slowly.

Sherlock groaned, wanton and desperate, thighs spread wide to accept every inch of Lestrade he could. He gasped, soft, relaxing deep breaths, designed to loosen his body, to accept Lestrade with minimal resistance. Lestrade pushed in further, and further, and Sherlock wasn’t sure just how much more of the man’s immense length he could take when he felt Lestrade’s bullocks press against his arse.

Sherlock gripped him tight; arms, legs and even the muscles of his arse, wishing to feel each and every inch of the man buried in him, deep instead, ready to caress, fuck and claim him.

Sherlock threw his head back, and refused to make eye contact as he begged, “More please, harder, _please_.”

“Soon,” promised Greg, fucking him slowly, revelling in the tight sensation of Sherlock underneath him. It was perfect bliss and he was in no hurry to rush through this, kissing down Sherlock’s jaw.

Sherlock panted, locking his legs around Lestrade’s torso, attempting to thrust up into the man. Soft, slow and intimate was something he was deeply unaccustomed to; causing a swell of sentiment to rise within him, and he tried everything he could to come back to the quick, vicious fucks with which he was familiar.

“Let me take care of you,” Greg stroked one hand through Sherlock’s hair, keeping firm control on the pace.

Sherlock whined, anxious and confused. He was on uneven ground, caring between sexual partners was a foreign concept. “No, I- Just tell me how you want me. I can do almost anything. Tell me and I’ll do it.”

“You don’t have to do anything. You’re perfect just how you are.”

Sherlock tried to get up onto his elbows, “No, there’s always something. I’m brilliant at following directions in bed. Tell me. Tell me what you want. I’ll give you what you need. I promise.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “I want you to relax and enjoy yourself, that’s all.” He thrust a little deeper, a little harder. “Please, Sherlock.”

There was an honesty about Lestrade and Sherlock decided to accept the risk, and chose the most obvious of the delicious sensations he was feeling, “I like that, just a bit angled upwards.” As Lestrade smiled and complied, pleasure rippled through Sherlock’s body, and a guttural groan escaped his throat.

Greg pinned his wrists and shifted his hips. “You’re gorgeous. I love the way you occupy my life, the way it feels to have you here. I’m glad I met you.” He nuzzled into Sherlock’s throat. “Your pleasure is important to me. Your happiness is important to me. I never wanted just a quick fuck with you, I wanted to get to know you, to have you in my life.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, choking back the wave of affection threatening to overwhelm him. He instead focussed on encouraging Lestrade’s subtle domination, exposing his neck further as he muttered, “Fuck, yes, hold me down, just like that.”

Greg kept pumping his hips, dragging his teeth along Sherlock’s pale throat, reveling in the feel of him, He could feel how close Sherlock was, how he trembled underneath him.

Sherlock found himself close to orgasm far sooner than he might have liked. Although, with Lestrade’s teeth on his throat, hand wrapped tight around his wrists, and most surprisingly, the praise that flowed from his lips, it was hardly unexpected. But he couldn’t do that to Lestrade, he couldn’t be another disappointment. The last thing Sherlock wanted was for his orgasm to interfere with Lestrade’s, to “put him off” the way it’d done with Wilkes. It hadn’t taken Sherlock long to learn that coming first was often worse than not coming at all.

He could feel Sherlock quiver with need. “Come for me, beautiful, it’s okay. I want to see you.”

Sherlock couldn’t have held back, even if he wanted to, and arched up as he came, pulsing thick white ropes between them. He cried out wordlessly, awash in heady rush of bliss. He gaped, breathless; his orgasms had never been like that before, raging through his entire being, so powerful they brought tears to his eyes from the sheer intensity.

“Amazing,” breathed Greg. He let go of one wrist to drag his fingers through the mess, bringing them to Sherlock’s lips before speeding his thrusts, eyes blown dark and hungry.

Sherlock opened his mouth, moaning as he tasted himself on Lestrade’s fingers. As Lestrade rocked harder into him, Sherlock wrapped his lips around the two digits, sucking them clean, eager to please.  

Greg kept feeding his lover come until he withdrew his fingers, dragged them through the mess and sucked on it himself, getting even closer to the edge.

As he came down from his own orgasm, Sherlock wanted to share, to drag Lestrade down with him, and so he asked, almost timidly, “ _Please_.”

“Please what? What do you want?”

“Come. Please. I want… to feel you. To feel you throb inside me. _Please_ ,” Sherlock realised he was damn near begging, but was too far gone, too euphoric to care.

Greg kissed him gently, gave a few more hard thrusts, and emptied himself into his lover with a groan.

The feeling of Lestrade coming was nearly as satisfying as his own release, and Sherlock’s entire body relaxed. A calm settled over his mind, stilling his racing thoughts, leaving him clear and content. But he still grew curious, and asked Lestrade with a rapturous smile, “How did you do that?”

“Do what?” Greg held him close, careful not to squish him.

“That was exquisite. Still is. My mind is quiet. It’s brilliant. Whatever it is you did, it’s brilliant.”

Greg chuckled. “Go on to sleep. I’ll be right here.”

Sherlock still had questions, but they didn’t seem so terribly pressing at the moment. He turned his back to nestle into Lestrade, and grasped his arm to drape over his abdomen. “We’ll need to do that again. I’ll want to know exactly how you did that.”

Greg chuckled. “I’ll be more than happy to.”


	4. Chapter 4

It took three months, but Sherlock finally acquiesced and had Mycroft send his belongings to Lestrade’s flat. Lestrade had been prompting him for six weeks, gently haranguing him about living out a duffel. However, it was clear Sherlock had deeply underestimated the vastness and quantity of his property. He stood, surrounded by trunks and luggage that staggered near to the ceiling. He unlatched the nearest trunk set at chest level and pulled out a conical flask, just as Lestrade opened the door.

Greg stared, gaping for a moment. “I...may need to get a bigger flat.”

“You are the one who insisted I bring this all over,” Sherlock smirked.

“I suppose I did, yeah. Well, how can I help you move it all in?” Greg closed the door behind him and eyed the tower of stuff.

“Where can I set up my lab? The rest is secondary.”

“Spare bedroom, assuming you still want to sleep with me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. It was an old argument between them, to the point of absurdity. Still, he huffed an exaggerated sigh and reassured him, “When I  _ do  _ sleep, it’s with you. What more do you want?”

Greg could think of a few, things, but he bit his tongue and grabbed a box. “Okay, where do you want this?”

“It’s not lab equipment, doesn’t matter,” Sherlock dismissed, closing the trunk in front of him. He patted the top, “But this can go in the spare bedroom.” Sherlock walked off in the direction of the bedroom empty handed, albeit pensive.

“All right.” Greg carried it into there, wondering at Sherlock’s shift in mood.

Sherlock stood, examining the room, “The table next, Lestrade, if you don’t mind. Folding table. It’s next to the telly.”

“Where do you want it?”

“Not sure. I’m going to need to get this bed out of here. There won’t be room otherwise. Could you move that next?”

“I’ll take it out of the flat.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock grinned, then sat in a soft chair in the corner. He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers under his chin.

“Not going to help?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked at him, “Oh! You’ve clearly done this before. I defer to your expertise.”

Greg rolled his eyes.

Sherlock frowned and his eyes grew glassy as he delved into his thoughts. He’d been living with the man, sleeping with the man, for three months and still had no idea why he chose to be upset about some things and not others. He paced Lestrade’s bedroom; located on the the second floor of his mind palace, picking up the items he found, and examining them for evidence. 

Lestrade’s wallet, filled with two hundred quid, the memories of their first meeting. How sensitive Lestrade was about the drugs, how he kicked him out of his flat, despite Sherlock’s mention of his…  alternate  forms of trade.  Drugs worse than prostitution, although both were clearly illegal. He flipped through the wallet, calling to mind Lestrade’s shopping habits, debts, memberships, and of course, birthday and address. He threw the wallet back on the dresser. 

He spun around, searching. Something here should tell him why Lestrade was angry about Sherlock’s sleepless nights, but more or less content to be bossed around. Why drugs were worse than prostitution, why he helped Sherlock send Mycroft a scrumptious chocolate cake to sabotage the man’s diet, but wouldn’t take any of Sherlock’s suggestions on the professor who graded him unjustly. Sherlock sat on Lestrade’s bed in the mind palace, and tried his damnedest to  _ observe _ .

Sherlock was being silent, lost in his thoughts. Greg did all the heavy lifting, leaving him alone as he put things where he hoped they belonged.

Sherlock left his mind palace after ransacking Lestrade’s room frustrated, void of answers. He looked up to find the room empty of Lestrade and the bed, but full of his lab equipment, most of it unpacked and set on the table with care. Sherlock nearly shouted in his confusion, bounding angrily from the room in search of Lestrade. 

He started in the front room, where Lestrade preferred to spend his time, and found it empty as well.

-o-

Greg had gone down to the pub, he was sitting at the bar, sipping his pint. A redheaded woman sat down next to him and gave him a smile. “Evening,” he said.

“I’ve seen you here a bit,” she remarked, holding up her glass in a pantomime cheers, “No fun drinking at home alone, is it?”

-o-

Sherlock tore through the flat, finding each room as empty as the last. He realized belatedly, in his panic, that Lestrade’s actual wallet was gone from the server by the front door. That left three options, and given the amount of manual labor Lestrade had done that day, Sherlock decided to try the local first. 

Greg was chatting with the woman when he felt more than saw Sherlock come into the pub. He ignored him at the moment in favor of continuing the conversation.

Sherlock stopped dead as he saw Lestrade at the bar, and the woman, beautiful by any standards, with her hand on his arm. He saw Lestrade smile, the smile he’d thought was just for him, so different from the smiles he gave his mates or when he talked to his mum, and walls came crashing down. 

He turned on his heels, heading back to the flat. His duffel was still packed, buried in hall closet, and he knew he could be gone in an instant.

Greg was on his feet in a moment as the pub door slammed shut. “Excuse me,” he said, hurrying after Sherlock. He knew he’d upset the other man; the stricken look on his face was obvious.

Sherlock slammed the flat door open, and cringed as the drywall behind the door handle crumbled. He found his bag in moments; he’d had enough experience in the past to know how to escape quickly. He set Lestrade’s key on the counter, taking the time to reign in his emotion, refusing to let another outburst belie his sentiment.  _ Holmes’ don’t have friends, they have opportunists, _ he remembered, setting Mycroft’s words on repeat throughout his mind palace, swearing to himself he’d never be so naive again. His fingers lingered on the key.

Greg came in a few moments after him. “Sherlock. Please. Sherlock, talk to me. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Yes, that much is clear. I’ve been prepared for this, it was inevitable,” Sherlock’s voice was cold, and Lestrade recognized the tone as one he used on strangers he refused to tolerate. “If you can stand to have my possessions in your flat for a day or so, I’ll arrange to have them moved.” He made his way to the front door.

“Don’t leave Sherlock. God, you make me crazy, but I don’t want you to leave.”

“It’s obvious I’m not what you want. I’m not what anyone wants; I should have listened to Mycroft. You enjoy your buxom women and your simple men. I’m a junkie, a whore, a freak. I’ve known it my whole life. You took me in out of pity, and I have no illusions that you’ve felt anything more. Don’t let your saviour complex get the best of you, Lestrade. Let me be. Go find what you really want.”

“Goddamnit Sherlock.” Greg grabbed at his arm. “I’m in love with you and you barely even  _ talk _ to me. For all I know, you’re only hanging out here because it’s a roof over your head. The sex is incredible but do you even like me?”

Sherlock blinked at him. And blinked again. “Love? No. You can’t mean that. How is that even possible? At best I’m a fantastic shag and source of irksome entertainment. A fantastic, bloody accident on M25 with tight arse.” The rapidity with which he made the analogy was disturbing.

“No, Sherlock. You’re far more than that. I just… I wish I knew how you felt about me. I’m here, Sherlock, as long as you’ll have me. I just… I need to know that I mean anything to you, sometimes, at least. I mean we’re British, I’m not expecting flowery declarations, well, maybe if my French half shows up.”

“What do mean? We live together. We sleep together when I get too tired to work, I don’t just pass out, I seek you out, because I sleep better by your side. I’ve moved in with you, we’ve been tested together; I’ve felt your come drip out my arse, for fuck’s sake. What more can I do? How much more evidence do you need that I am stupidly sentimental about you, to my own detriment?!?!”

Sherlock dropped the duffel unceremoniously so he could gesture with both arms, “It’s infuriating, because you don’t make any sense and I don’t know what makes you angry or why! And one day I will do something, anything to push you away and I won’t even know what it was, because you don’t make  _ any bloody sense! _ ” Sherlock’s movements had become frantic and desperate, like a wild animal, injured and cornered.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Greg pulled him into his arms. “I love you, Sherlock. And I’m sorry I responded to that woman flirting with me. I just get tired sometimes. I think what I’m trying to say is I need words sometimes too.”

“I don’t know the words. I’ve never needed them before. I can’t do this, I can’t be what you need,” Sherlock’s arms lay flat at his sides, but he buried his face into Lestrade’s neck. “I want to. I don’t know how.”

“Yes you can.” Greg rubbed his back. “I believe in you. I know you’ve been sober these last three months.”

Sherlock slumped in his arms, “But that’s an action! It’s not words! I can’t give you words!” Sherlock pushed away, threading his fingers through his curls, and pulling angrily.

“That’s my issue, not yours. I know what you mean, even if you can’t say it. Please don’t hurt yourself.”

“But you need the words. You just said as much. Apparently the redhead at the pub could give you the words you needed. I saw how you smiled at her. You need better than me. You deserve better than me.” Sherlock’s tone grew dark, hateful, and loathsome, “I’m a brat, a freak, an arsehole. I’m worthless, sociopathic, insufferable. I know this. I know my faults. You don’t deserve to be burdened with me. Just let me leave.” Sherlock looked to the side, refusing to make eye contact with Lestrade.

“But I want you to stay, Sherlock.” Greg tried to keep the edge of desperation out of his voice. “I’m sorry I acted out, that was unfair of me.” He swallowed hard. “Please don’t leave me.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up, and he demanded, “Why do you get angry that I don’t come to bed every night?”

“Because I worry about you. I want to know that you’re healthy, that you’re getting enough food, enough sleep.” Greg’s hands were open in front of him. 

“Why were the drugs not okay, but you didn’t care that I was getting paid for sex?” Sherlock seemed markedly focused, and no longer despondent.

Greg blinked. “You were only getting paid for sex to support your drug habit. Stop the drugs and that would stop the prostitution.”

“You could just as easily argue that if I stopped getting fucked for money, I couldn’t support the drug habit!” Sherlock tossed his hands in the air, then dropped onto the sofa. His voice grew quiet, “This is really not my area. I will keep making you angry. You’ll grow to hate me in the end. They always do.”

“I won’t.” He sat next to Sherlock, wanting to touch him but hesitating. “It’s been three months, Sherlock. I’m still here.”

Sherlock slumped back, eyes closed, feeling exhausted from the argument, “So now what?”

Greg took his hand. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want other people touching you like that. I’m selfish, Lestrade, I won’t share you.”

“It won’t happen again.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, “I’ve never resolved an argument with someone like you before. Is sex the customary apology?”

Greg chuckled, a bit wetly.  He leaned in to kiss Sherlock gently.

With a hesitant smile, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Lestrade, pulling the two of them back down on the sofa.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock darted his eyes away, and bit his lip, “Can we… just stay like this? Is that okay?”

“Yes.” He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held him to his chest.

“I like this,” Sherlock declared, “No one else ever let me do this.”

“I love you,” said Greg again, running fingers through his hair.

“I think I love you too, but I’m not really sure what that’s like.” Sherlock huffed, “Mycroft always said that love is a dangerous disadvantage.” 

He paused, then continued with a factual tone, “But I like knowing you are here. And I don’t want other people touching you. And I like when you touch me. Is that enough?” He gazed at Lestrade with an unusually hopeful look about him.

“Yes it is, Sherlock. I promise that it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Janto321 is at [Merindab](http://merindab.tumblr.com).  
> Phipiohsum475 is at [PhiPiOhSum475](http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com).


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